


Late Night Musings

by zycroft



Category: House M.D.
Genre: First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-01
Updated: 2008-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zycroft/pseuds/zycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House alone and not-so-alone before the Ketamine treatment wears off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Night Musings

House’s eyes fluttered open and he quickly scanned his surroundings, mentally checking off a list-- still dark, no noises to be heard, home in bed, not drunk, not hung-over, no pain, mildly aroused, and alone.

He heaved a sigh and threw the blankets off, looking down at his partial erection in exasperation. Ever since the Ketamine treatment, his libido was in overdrive, making up for the years of pain and opiate suppression. He gave another sigh, this one smaller, and palmed his erection through his pajama pants.

No more pain, but still alone. Any given time of the day he was hornier than a teenager, and these random, lonely sessions weren’t as satisfying as they had been when he’d occasionally forced his reluctant body to arousal and then orgasm before the Ketamine treatment.

If only Cameron really wanted him, instead of wanting a project. Someone to fix. He didn’t need fixing anymore, Cuddy had already done it. He wondered if Cameron were jealous she didn’t have more to do with it than just passing along his wishes to Cuddy.

He wished Cameron were here now, groping him, kissing his neck, opening her body to him and enjoying this pain-free existence with him. His cock gave a twitch against his palm, and he groaned. He wanted a woman’s hand on him.

He considered Cuddy. She was beautiful, strong, and smart. They’d only shared one night together, but it was a night he relived many times when found himself in this state. They had an undeniable connection, and he needed that to feel any real gratification.

But he was alone.

He groaned in frustration, and swung himself off the bed, giving one last squeeze to his begging cock, and walked into the living room. Switching on the TV, he settled onto the couch and resumed palming himself through his clothing. He was hard, lonely, and very frustrated. His cock was begging for attention his mind couldn’t find satisfaction with.

He cast his mind back to the days of Stacy, of the days in which they couldn’t get enough of each other. She was just as much a predator in bed as she was in the courtroom, and he’d sometimes indulge himself in becoming her prey. She’d stalk him across the room, pin him down, nip at his neck, and grind her hips into his erection. He relished the way she’d pull his pants down just far enough to free his cock, and then ride him until she was satisfied. He’d learned early on that when she got like that, his own satisfaction was of no concern to her. He had to control himself and timing was everything. If he came before she was ready, he’d go soft and she’d be furious for days. If she decided she was done and he still hadn’t come, he was left finishing himself off by hand in the bathroom. The first time that happened, he’d done it in front of her, and she gave him the most disapproving look, he was unable to finish at all. It was frustrating, and it turned him on more than anyone would ever know.

He had his pants pulled down below his knees now, his right hand wrapped loosely around his cock and his left idly tickling at the hairs covering his balls. He was building up a rhythm, pausing every few strokes to roll the foreskin back up, only to roll it down again with his next full stroke. He was raising his hips off the couch, and his strokes were becoming frenzied. His blood was a roar in his ears, his eyes scrunched tightly closed, his breath coming in fast pants, and the pressure, oh the pressure was building up, coiling itself inside him, getting ready to burst. His hands a blur, he opened his eyes to find a tissue.

Wilson.

Wilson was staring at him, eyes open wide, pupils dilated, mouth hanging open, and House was coming harder than he had in his life, his entire body jerking and spasming, his eyes locked with Wilson’s and the last few breaths ripped from his body in sharp, barking pants.

He fell back into the couch, breathing hard but coming down from the most intense high he could remember. He was smiling to himself, smiling at his mind and how it refused to bend to his will. No matter how hard he fought the fantasies of Wilson, his subconscious fought harder to bring them to the light of day.

His breathing was slowing down, the sticky mess on his hands cooling, the afterglow queerly intensifying as his whole body seemingly melted further into that most relaxed state.

He froze. Wilson’s heavy breathing filled the room, coming out in sharp bursts, crashing against the walls and rebounding into House’s ears.

He opened his eyes.

Wilson’s pupils were definitely dilated, his chest heaving in time with his harsh, shallow breaths, his hands convulsively clenching and unclenching at his sides. An obvious bulge was pushing a small wet spot in House’s direction.

“Like the show?” House asked. “You could’ve knocked.”

“I…I…,” Wilson spluttered.

“Hand me that shirt from over there,” he interrupted.

“You’re not circumcised!” Wilson practically shouted.

House gave a small smile, tilting his head as though he was considering what Wilson just said. “So that’s a no on the shirt, I take it?”

Wilson just stared at him as he pushed himself off the couch and brushed by him to reach the shirt. He began wiping himself up, and smirked when Wilson started edging himself towards the door.

“So,” he began, much louder than necessary, “what brings you here in the middle of the night?”

Wilson was frozen by the bookcase, his mouth moving, but no sound coming out. House rolled his eyes, pulled up his pants, gently tucked himself inside, and contemplated fixing himself a scotch. Wilson could definitely use one, and the thought spurred him into action.

Wilson gave a slight jump as House walked past him. Wilson moved towards the couch, sitting on the far end, intent on looking anywhere but at the spot of House’s ejaculate on the floor near where Wilson’s own feet had been just a few minutes ago.

House returned with two tumblers of deep amber warmth, and Wilson dumbly took the one pressed into his hand. House grabbed the shirt he’d used for clean up, and wiped up the stray spot on the floor. The afterglow was just a memory now, but he remained in a state of utter relaxation as he propped his feet up on the coffee table and sipped his scotch.

“Are you done freaking out now?”

“I’m not freaking out,” Wilson petulantly answered.

House snorted. “Right.”

“I’m not,” he insisted. “I was just a bit surprised. It isn’t everyday one finds themselves, uh…uh…”

“Breaking into their best friend’s house to watch him jerk off?” House finished for him.

“I didn’t break in!” Wilson cried indignantly. “You gave me a key! And what did you expect me to do? You weren’t answering my knocks, and you were moaning. I thought you were hurt! That maybe, maybe,” he cast around for the words needed to describe the scene that had played out in his mind when House didn’t answer the door – House in pain, tripping over something, leg going out from under him; House - in pain without any Vicodin nearby, curled into a ball and clutching his traitorous thigh in pain. In pain! He heaved a great sigh and shook his head.

“So you liked what you saw.” It wasn’t a question.

Wilson sputtered, a bit of scotch escaping his mouth, falling back into the glass he’d been trying to drink from. “No, I…”

House smirked.

Wilson cleared his throat and set his glass down on the coffee table. He put his hands in his lap, then suddenly reached out for his glass again. He drained it in a single long gulp, and his throat burned. He could feel the warmth washing over him even as he was coughing. He was dimly aware of House pounding on his back, but was more concerned with the burn, the horrible burn in his throat and the lack of air.

He slowly regained his composure, and tried to hide his astonishment that House’s left hand was still resting on his back. Wilson turned to face him and found himself at yet another loss for words.

“It’s ok, Wilson.” They both knew he wasn’t offering words of comfort about the scotch.

House’s hand remained still, and Wilson’s mind added 20 pounds to the weight. 15 years. He’d known the man 15 years, had seen him through the aftermath of the infarction, Stacey’s departure, his date with Cameron, Stacey’s return, Stacy’s departure again. He’d stayed at House’s place when his last wife had kicked him out. He’d seen him in the showers at the gym before the infarction and never thought twice about it. Shit, he hadn’t even noticed that House wasn’t circumcised.

“So why are you here in the middle of the night?”

“I have no idea.” They laughed. “I better get going, though. I’ll let you know if I remember tomorrow.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Wilson looked panicked. Surely House didn’t mean for him to stay. And as much as the man avoided meaningful conversation, he might want to talk about what just happened so that he could watch Wilson squirm some more.

“You’re a lightweight, Jimmy. Three beers and you’re falling down the stairs. You can’t drive home after downing an entire big boy drink.”

Wilson chuckled, relief breaking across his face.

House stood. “You know where the blankets are. Oh,” he pulled his t-shirt over his head, “and here’s something to clean up with. I don’t want to find puddles of spooge all over my living room in the morning.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
Wilson was in hell. Fifteen years and he’d never even considered House as a sexual being. Sure, there was Stacy, and the date with Cameron that probably could have been worse, but not by much. He was fairly certain House wasn’t kidding about sleeping with Cuddy once, though he’d always assumed that it happened in college.

He’d seen the man naked, for Christ’s sake! Many times, and he’d never thought twice about it. He’d found himself mildly attracted to other men in passing from time to time, had even once found himself turned on by another man, but never House.

And now here he was, sitting on House’s couch, mind reeling from watching the man jerk off, penis almost painfully erect and leaking, and House expecting him to whip it out and gratify himself while the very man that caused all this was just a few feet away with a thin door separating them. Shit, House had even given him the shirt off his back to use as a come rag!

And Wilson couldn’t deny he’d felt his desire flare at the sight of House taking his shirt off – at the image of House’s lightly hairy chest – strong shoulder muscles rippling – biceps flexing, the vein in his right arm jumping with his movements – the small patch of hair on the back of his head that stood up on end as he pulled his shirt forward and away from his body to toss it into Wilson’s lap, over his erection.

And the implications of his actions! Wilson’s head was reeling, his cock was screaming for release, and House was so damn calm, so smug, so, well…proud. And he was just a few feet away! No doubt sleeping soundly, probably with a small smile on his face as he dreamt of ways to torment Wilson about this in the morning.

Who was he kidding? House wouldn’t just torment him in the morning; he’d torment him for the rest of his life about this!

House leaned against the corner of the hallway, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles, smirking as he watched Wilson silently freak out on his couch.

This could be so much fun. House had to take his time deciding the best course of action. Should he just leave Wilson on the couch, go to bed and then hound him about this for the next 30 years? Or should he go into the living room, put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, get him to look him in the eyes, kiss him? House wasn’t real big on kissing, but he figured it was the surest route into Wilson’s pants.

And he knew at least part of Wilson was interested in House getting into his pants.

House had to be very careful, though. Wilson was skittish, like an unbroken colt, and the wrong move would chase him out the door and out of House’s life forever.

Maybe he should bide his time, gauge Wilson’s reaction in the coming days or weeks, slowly start to crowd the man, invade his personal space, build up Wilson’s comfort, and then seduce him. Shit. That was probably the best move, but it was sure to involve kissing. House rolled his eyes at the thought.

Maybe House wasn’t ready for this. It was one thing to have Wilson occasionally creep into his mind while he was jerking off, and he’d love to explore the physical possibilities of a sexual relationship with him, but Wilson wasn’t wired the same way.

True, House needed a personal connection with someone to experience any real gratification, but it was based more on intellect, rather than emotion.

And while Wilson was quite the womanizer, he _had_ cheated on all three of his wives, after all, it was never just about sex. House was certain that Wilson had loved each and every woman he’d ever slept with, even if it was only until he zipped up his pants and closed the door behind him.

Shit.

House resigned himself to solving the puzzle after getting some rest and pushed away from the wall. He was turning back towards his room when Wilson finally decided to give into his biological urges and jerk off.

House froze as Wilson unzipped his khakis, lifting his hips oh so slightly and suggestively to pull his pants and briefs halfway down to his knees. His hard cock slapped back against his soft stomach with a wet _smack!_ that shot from House’s ears, spiraled into his central nervous system, rocketed down his spinal column, and dropped into his loins, causing an unexpected stirring.

Wilson began stroking himself with his left hand, thrusting his hips to meet his strokes, spreading his legs as far as his underwear would allow. He was running his right hand under his shirt, rubbing his chest. When his arm stopped moving and his hand continued to cause ripples in the fabric, House knew he was playing with his nipple, making it hard, and it was making House hard, too.

Wilson moaned, and House couldn’t help himself. He’d just had the most fantastic orgasm he could remember, and here his cock was hard, his hand was reaching into his pants, stroking himself, unconsciously timing his strokes with Wilson’s thrusting hips.

“Oh, House…”

He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination. It was so soft, more like a sigh than anything. House fought the basic instinct to close his eyes as a means to relish the pleasure. He found that watching Wilson was more stimulating than anything he’d seen or imagined before. Keeping his strokes in time with Wilson’s thrusting hips, he began shimmying out of his pajama pants, pushing them down to his ankles, pulling his feet out, and nudging the material away from him.

House cautiously began moving into the living room, approaching from Wilson’s blind spot. The view was great and he was debating whether he should make his presence known to the other man when Wilson’s lips parted and he moaned again.

“Greg…”

House strode forward, stood in front of him, gazing at his flushed face, the sweaty hairs beginning to clump on his forehead, his hand travelling up and down his cock, momentarily hypnotizing House. The image of Wilson opening his eyes and freaking out to find House looming over him with his cock sticking straight out from his body impelled him crouch down.

Tentatively, House reached for Wilson, to touch his leg or chest, get his attention. But startling the man would lead to disaster. He stood and backed away, quietly making his way to the hall. He picked up his clothing from the floor, and cautiously slipped his pants on, careful not to make a sound. He moved down the hallway to his room, and slowly pulled the door shut, holding the handle down to keep the latch from noisily clicking.

House then threw his door open, pleased with the crash it made against the stopper inside his room. He sauntered into the living room, and sat down next to a bewildered Wilson whose cock was shriveling from fright in his hand.

“Mind if I join you?”House laid his right hand on Wilson’s left thigh and watched with amusement as the man’s cock surged back to life. There was no way Wilson wasn’t light-headed after that much blood rushed to his groin.

Wilson’s mouth was hanging slightly agape, his breathing shallow, his face flushed. House had never witnessed a sexier sight. He slid his hand up and down Wilson’s thigh. “Going to continue?” he asked.

Wilson tightened his grip and slowly resumed stroking his cock. When his gaze met House’s, he closed his eyes. He was swept away by lust, and was in sudden danger of coming much sooner than he wanted to.

He flinched when the other man suddenly began moving next to him. He opened his eyes to see House pulling his pants down with his free hand. Wilson watched, transfixed by the sight. His desire grew exponentially as House revealed his body to him. First a thatch of hair, thick and curly, followed by House’s hard cock, caught in the waistband of his pants and coming into view from the base to the tip before springing up. The scar on his right thigh was a deep, dark canyon surrounded by powerful muscle and light hair that travelled below the knee and dusted House’s toned calves.

Trailing his gaze back up House’s body, he focused on the other man’s erection. He was as transfixed by the similarities with his own body as he was the differences.

The dorsal artery running the length of House’s shaft had more definition than his own. It stood out from his body before dipping into the tissue below and disappearing at the foreskin. Wilson was fascinated with House’s foreskin. It hid the head of his cock from view, yet hugged it so tightly, no detail was lost. Wilson thought it must hurt to stretch the skin further by pulling it down to expose the head, and was burning with curiosity. He wanted to see what it looked like bunched up below the head, and see House’s expression as it was pulled back up. Wilson couldn’t help but think of it as a perverse kind of peek-a-boo, and was somewhat disgusted with himself for the thought.

He looked into House’s eyes and was taken aback at how dark they’d become. He was staring into deep blue pools of lust, the pupils depthless puddles of black, and he could feel himself getting lost in House’s eyes. Wilson gulped.

“Can I touch y–it?” Wilson asked, indicating House’s cock with a shift of his eyes. The slip wasn’t lost on House, who nodded his consent.

Turning his body slightly to face House, Wilson shakily removed his hand from his own cock and reached for House’s. He paused just millimetres away, and found himself frozen with doubt, fear, a deeper panic than any before. What was he doing? Did he really want to do this? Why was House letting him? His mind was screaming for him to close the distance, to touch the other man, consequences be damned. He looked up at House and saw his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down. It was the sexiest thing Wilson had ever witnessed, and his mind went blissfully silent as his hand closed around House.

House’s breath rushed out of him. His blood was roaring in his ears again, and his entire being was focused on the single thought that Wilson was stroking his cock, which swelled almost painfully at the man’s ministrations. Wilson was gently prodding at the foreskin with his fingertips and House thought he was in danger of losing his mind forever. The pressure was too light – was too much – was just right. His mind was spiraling out of control from the contact, and he growled at Wilson, a primal, guttural sound that rose from his loins, tore through his lungs, and ripped from his body to assault Wilson’s ears.

Emboldened by House’s obvious enjoyment, Wilson leaned closer and wrapped his thumb and forefinger around the foreskin. He began pulling it down to gather at the top of the shaft. As he watched the head of House’s cock slowly come into view, he unconsciously licked his lips. A surge of precome pooled at the slit and began to dribble downwards. Wilson watched as the stream met his finger and began to spread along the juncture it created against House’s flesh. He surprised even himself when his tongue darted out and stole a taste before returning to his mouth.

“Ungh!” House exclaimed. “Wilson,” he hissed, “what do you think you’re doing?” He shoved Wilson off of him and laid his right arm across Wilson’s chest, holding him to the back of the couch. Wilson’s eyes were wide with fear and astonishment, and closed when House’s left hand closed around his cock. He gasped as House began stroking him, and felt his body flush with excitement.

House’s body was hypersensitive, and acted as if a second orgasm was imminent, though he wasn’t willing to mar the memory of this amazing first with bitter resentment that his body failed him, _betrayed_ him. He had too many moments like that as it was. And Wilson’s tongue would surely prove the point, one way or the other.

His sole intent was to gratify Wilson and witness what so many women had before him – to take in his heady aroma of sweat and semen – to feel the heat radiating off his body as his cock pulsed – to watch his face twist itself into that most private and unguarded expression of joy.  
House drew his arm away from Wilson’s chest, and traded hands on the man’s cock, preferring to use his dominate hand to stroke him. He brought his left hand down to Wilson’s balls, gently fondling, idly rolling his balls in their sac, teasing the base of his cock with an extended finger.

Wilson was panting, his eyes still closed, mouth slightly open, and god! there was his tongue again. House groaned at the sight and increased his pace on Wilson’s cock, bringing his left hand down to press against his perineum. Wilson’s breath hitched and he gave a sharp rasp. Intrigued, House applied more pressure to his perineum, and was disappointed when he didn’t get the same result. He began experimenting with a variety of pressures, moving his fingers around to extract that sound from Wilson again. As he moved backward, he felt Wilson’s cock swell slightly.

 _Interesting._

He swiped backwards with his middle finger and Wilson hissed. Smiling broadly, House began to massage ever-closer to his anus, and watched in fascination as the man gritted his teeth, sweat pouring from his brow and running down his cheeks in rivulets. House’s pace on Wilson’s cock was nearly frantic and he could feel Wilson’s balls drawing up against his body. House pressed his finger to Wilson’s entrance and watched as the man’s eyes shot open, watched him screw his eyes closed again, grit his teeth, felt his cock swell to bursting, and then his ejaculate pulse out of him in long, violent ropes.

The first two or three spurts sprang from him in leaping arches and one landed on House’s thigh. The heat seared him, and his own cock gave a violent twitch. Wilson was bucking his hips into House’s hand, his mouth now hanging open, and House could hear a muted shout through the din of blood rushing in his ears. He continued to stroke him slowly until Wilson fell back against the couch, all tension ripped from his body by orgasm.

House grabbed the shirt he’d left for Wilson to use and wiped first his hands, then his leg. He looked around to see where those runaway shots had landed, but didn’t see any trace of them. He balled up the shirt and tossed it over Wilson’s softening cock.

“Wilson, you pervert,” he mockingly admonished. “You _liked_ that. I’m disappointed. I would’ve thought you’d tell me you liked men fingering your ass.” His tone remained light, but he was fishing just as surely as if he had a line in his hands.

Wilson chuckled weakly.

“Tell me, do you like guys fucking your ass?” The mocking tone belied the gravity of the question, and House knew Wilson may assume the question rhetorical, but was willing to chance Wilson’s post-orgasmic bliss would lull him into giving a real answer.

Wilson remained relaxed into the couch, eyes closed, breath slowing and his sweaty hair clumping over his brow.

“Never done anything like that before,” Wilson murmured.

House cocked an eyebrow. “Never?”

“Never.”

“You didn’t act like that was new experience. Are you sure that was the first time someone had their finger there?”

“Well…”

House was content to wait for Wilson to grow uncomfortable with the silence and offer up the explanation he sought. Sure enough, after a minute or two Wilson began to shift unconsciously, broadcasting his discomfort under House’s scrutiny.

“I may have, uh…” Wilson floundered, “you know. I might have…once or twice…you know…gotten, uh, close when I was uh…you know.”

He was laughing nervously and licking his lips again, eyes still closed. House remained quiet.

“God, that was so fucking hot!” Wilson exclaimed.

House smirked. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

House barged into Wilson’s office and made his way to the balcony door without even glancing at him. He began fiddling with the rod to that controls the blinds, idly twisting it back and forth in his hands.

“I asked Cameron out on a date.” House snuck a peek at Wilson out of the corner of his eyes.

Wilson merely glanced up at him from behind his desk, his face an unreadable mask. He did not make a sound.

“Turns out she was only interested in the crippled Greg House.” An audible breath from Wilson. “Ironic, really, since crippled Greg House wasn’t very acrobatic in bed and the Vicodin made it more work than it was worth.” He turned to face Wilson, dropped a wink, and strode out the door.

Wilson was on the verge of hyperventilating. He didn’t know what to make of what had happened between them in House’s living room. When House had gone to bed the second time, Wilson didn’t know whether he should have followed him or stayed on the couch or rushed out into the night and called a cab for a ride home. He’d finally settled down on the couch and fallen into a deep sleep. When he woke, his fuzzy brain had convinced him it had all been a dream until he saw House’s t shirt crumpled in a sticky ball under the coffee table. He’d rushed out of the townhouse and sped home, even raced through a yellow light in an effort to put as much distance between them as he could, as quickly as possible.

He didn’t know how House would react. He wasn’t even sure what he thought of the situation himself. What was this? It wasn’t normal, he knew that much. What next? The question plagued him to the point of distraction and he found himself unable to concentrate, whether he was in a meeting or with patients. And in typical Greg House fashion, the man was treating this as a game. Wilson heaved a sigh and tried to focus on the chart before him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

House kicked his front door closed behind him and set his helmet and backpack on the desk chair, then shrugged out of his motorcycle jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch on the way into the kitchen. He stood at the counter and debated between relaxing with a beer or abandoning himself to the joys of scotch induced oblivion. House had just decided on the scotch when there was a knock on his door.

“Use your key!” House called, changing his course as he turned to open the fridge.

Wilson walked in and stood just inside the living room. He watched House close the refrigerator door and lean against the kitchen doorway with two beers in his hand.

“Phillies game starts soon. You staying?”

Wilson’s hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing unconsciously as he considered the offer. He wasn’t sure why he was here. He didn’t know what he’d expected, how he thought House would act, or what he wanted to happen, but he was caught off guard by the normalcy. He sighed and dropped his hand to his side. House thought he looked like the picture of defeat.

“Sit down,” House said, gesturing with a nod of his head. He remained in the kitchen until Wilson settled on the couch, and then crossed the room to join him. He sat down next to Wilson and handed him a beer, then picked up the remote and found the Phillies game. They watched in silence, sipping their beer and making the occasional remark about the game, resolutely avoiding any talk about anything else.

Wilson got up and grabbed them fresh beers during the seventh inning stretch, then resettled on the couch. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but it seemed as if House had shifted an inch or two closer while he’d been in the kitchen. Wilson had just convinced himself House was definitely closer than before when he felt the man’s hand idly tracing an invisible line along his outer thigh.

  
Wilson held his breath as questions crashed through his brain: Why was House doing this? Was House just playing a cruel joke on him? Did he want House to do this? Did he want House to do anything else to him? Did he want to do anything in return? What should he do in return? What now?

House sensed Wilson’s inner turmoil and redirected his finger to the inside of Wilson’s thigh. When Wilson still didn’t acknowledge his touch, he laid his hand flat on his thigh and broadened his strokes. Wilson finally released his pent up breath and slightly arched his back, spread his legs fractionally, and leaned his head back against the couch. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly parted, his breathing heavy. He made no move to return House’s ministrations.

House studied Wilson’s reaction. He was amazed at the other man’s ability to get so wound up and frustrated, and he reveled at the sheer beauty of witnessing him let it all go. House felt a mixture of pride and intimidation that he caused that tension. He was overwhelmed that Wilson allowed him to ease it, too.

With each stroke, House’s hand was getting closer to the juncture of Wilson’s thighs, and that stirring flesh that was gently awakening under that glorious touch. Wilson parted his knees further and finally turned to look at House.

“Hou , mmm, House...”

House leaned forward and ran his free hand through Wilson’s hair, studying the path each strand took as it resettled against his scalp. He increased the pressure on Wilson’s leg, then focused his attention on his burgeoning erection. Wilson arched his hips into the touch and groaned.

“Bedroom,” House commanded and rose from the couch.

Wilson was caught off guard by the sudden loss of contact and turned just in time to see House disappear down the hall towards his bedroom. A moment ago, Wilson couldn’t have told you what he wanted, but he could tell you he didn’t want House to stop touching him. Now that he had, Wilson was unsure of what to do next. He debated the merits of rushing out the door and never looking back, and decided they were few. The merits of following House were many, but Wilson was terrified of what the change in their relationship could mean for the future. Wilson thought they might be able to ignore last night and move on with their lives as they always had. Could they do the same if he walked down that hallway? What would they even do if he did? Couldn’t they have just stayed on the couch and enjoyed what they were doing?

A sudden roar of cheering from the TV broke into Wilson’s thoughts and startled him. He turned to the source of his distraction and bit his lower lip as he contemplated remaining on the couch and pretending nothing had happened. House might come to look for him and he could point to the game and mutter about the score or maybe take a swig of his beer. Actually, a swig of his beer sounded like the best idea he’d had in a long time. He reached for the bottle and paused, fingers curled around cold glass, drops of water falling down condensation tracks and pooling along his finger as House loomed above him, amusement etched into his features.

Wilson peered up at him with dark brown eyes framed with thick lashes. He was frozen like a deer in headlights. The Phillies’ announcer droned on about the last play and the crowd’s rowdiness increased and Wilson remained still.

And then he gulped.

House grabbed Wilson’s arm and wrenched him from the couch. “I said bedroom. I meant _now._ Which was _then._ **Move**.” House pulled Wilson into the hallway and unceremoniously shoved him towards the bedroom at the far end. Wilson was too stunned to protest, as House knew he would be.

Wilson turned through the doorway and his momentum was enough to get him halfway to the bed before he came to a stuttering halt. House hovered just inside the room, giving Wilson time to either accept what was happening or run out of the room, possibly out of his life entirely.

 

“This will be much hotter if you take your clothes off.” House watched Wilson reach for the top button on his shirt and then drop his hands back down to his sides. Sighing, House walked across the room and reached for the buttons himself, but Wilson shied away.

“Spare me the blushing virgin routine and strip,” House said. He dropped his hands to Wilson’s waist and leaned his head closer. Wilson gulped. House rest his lips against Wilson’s ear and rasped “I’ll leave your virtue intact if you want, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to suffer another case of Wilson-induced blue balls.”

Wilson groaned and House felt him relax into his arms. Wilson began mouthing House’s neck, tracing House’s jugular with his lips and leaving a moist trail behind. Breaking contact, Wilson lightly blew a puff of air against House’s neck and watched as the skin dimpled and rippled inches from his face.

House growled, a low, dangerous sound emanating from somewhere deep inside him. Heat twisted over itself in his groin. His hands tightened on Wilson’s waist and he thrust his hips against him, seeking friction, release, deliverance from the insanity that was fore-foreplay.

“I wanna fuck you.” He hadn’t meant to say it. It was the worst thing he could have said, the thing most likely to make Wilson bolt, to run away and never come back. He felt Wilson stiffen in his arms and House prepared himself for the inevitable.

“Uh….well,” gulp, “uh, we’ll see,” was Wilson’s halting response.

House ran his hands up Wilson’s sides and brought them together at the top button of Wilson's shirt. He glanced up from his hands to Wilson’s eyes seeking permission, and felt a thrill when he saw a slight, nearly imperceptible nod. He focused on unbuttoning Wilson’s shirt, keeping his eyes on his hands, trying not to think about the flesh below the white t-shirt he was revealing little by little. When he reached the last button above the waistline, he gave a tug and caught a flash of skin before the tails of Wilson’s dress shirt fell into place against his hips. House undid the last two pearly blockades and stepped back to view his handy work.

“Very nice,” House commented. “Lose the shirts.”

House removed his own shirt and smiled when he saw Wilson doing the same. And then Wilson just stood there, looking at him dumbly, hands dangling on the ends of his arms, brow furrowed, hair mussed and chest rapidly rising and falling. House wanted him like this forever.

He pushed against Wilson’s chest and smirked as the man’s face expressed his shock at falling onto the bed. House kicked off his shoes and leaned over Wilson, gradually lowering his body onto him. It had to be his imagination, but House could swear he heard a click when their bodies settled against each other.

Wilson was moaning and writhing beneath him, thrusting his hips up, making contact and House had to bite his lip from calling out. Sheer frustration got House’s hand between them to work on Wilson’s belt. He undid his own and only then did he break contact to strip them of their clothes.

House rolled his eyes when he noticed Wilson’s loafers not only had tassels, but they had laces, too. House wasn’t even aware loafers could have laces. Only Wilson could pull off sexy while dressed in the stuffiest clothes ever designed. House considered leaving Wilson’s socks on purely for the comic value of a naked man sporting an erection and blue socks with white flower-thingies on them, but his dick told him to hurry up. Wilson’s socks flew across the room and landed somewhere of no concern. House dropped his jeans and socks in a puddle on top of Wilson’s slacks (performing an eye roll for even _thinking_ the word slacks), and literally jumped over Wilson to come crashing down on the bed beside him.

“House!” Wilson reflexively admonished. “What are you – mmmph!” House shut him up with their first kiss.

As far as kisses go, House thought it was pretty hot, but nothing compared to the way Wilson practically melted into the mattress as their lips moved. House’s tongue gently probed, seeking entrance, and he thought he would come undone when Wilson whimpered as their tongues danced. House just _knew_ Wilson would be one of those people that has to kiss their partner.

House was grinding his hips into Wilson’s again, cocks rubbing against each other, precome spreading along their bodies, making the whole experience alternately too slick or too sticky to satisfy them.

Wilson broke the kiss and looked down the length of their bodies, moaning at the sight of House on him. The situation was surreal, and his body thrummed with physical and emotional tension. He needed release soon, and wasn’t going to get it this way.

“Maybe we should…uh…” he snaked his hand between their bodies and took hold of House. “Better this way,” he mumbled in explanation.

House was biting his lip and trying to distract himself from the pleasure. He reached for Wilson and tried to concentrate on finding a rhythm, but Wilson’s hand pumping his cock was too much for him.

House slid down Wilson’s body until the man couldn’t reach him anymore. He sat upright and moved away from a bewildered Wilson. “Need a minute,” he panted in explanation.

Wilson’s face broke into a wide grin, the grin he unknowingly saved for House. House smiled back and joined Wilson when he started laughing.

“This is crazy,” laughed Wilson. “We’re acting like a couple of teenagers.”

“My mom and dad won’t be home for a couple more hours…how about a blow job?”

Wilson cracked up at House’s impression of a teenager’s voice. Wilson was fully relaxed, unguarded and the most enticing thing House had ever seen. He leaned forward and experimentally ran his tongue up Wilson’s cock from the base. He liked the feel of the hot skin running over his coarse tongue, so he did it again. Wilson had gone deathly quiet and House couldn’t see his face from this angle, but the stream of clear liquid rushing from Wilson’s tip assured him he was doing ok.

He couldn’t identify any real taste to Wilson’s skin, but was uncertain of taking the giant leap of engulfing Wilson in his mouth. To be honest with himself, it was the thought of Wilson’s precome in his mouth that held him back. He wrapped his hand around Wilson instead, and found the rhythm he’d sought earlier. He watched Wilson buck into his hand and smiled to himself. He leaned forward again, his tongue gently probing Wilson’s sac, then laving it when he found the salty taste bearable. Wilson’s moaning and bucking encouraged him, so he caressed Wilson with both his hand and his tongue. He wasn’t willing to roam much with his mouth, but Wilson didn’t seem to mind that House was using only his hand to trace circles around his entrance, occasionally pressing against the barrier, but never breaking it.

“House,” Wilson ground out. “Gonna come if you keep that up.”

House stuck his head up between Wilson’s legs and flashed a devilish smile. “Keep doing what?” he faked innocence.

“Sucking on your balls?” lick

“Playing with your ass?” press

“Stroking you?” squeeze

“What’s wrong, Jimmy? Don’t wanna come for me?”

“Not yet,” Wilson panted.

“Too bad. Because I want you to come for me. I want to feel you come in my hand while I finger you and watch you buck and thrash against me.”

“N-n-n-not yet!” Wilson barked. His chest was heaving and his face flushed while his hips were alternately grinding his ass against House’s left hand and thrusting into his right.

House withdrew both hands and his grin widened. Wilson stared at him dumbly, shocked at the loss of contact. “House,” he whined.

House crawled up the length of Wilson’s body and pressed his body down against him. “What do you want, Jimmy? Hmmm? You have to tell me.”

“Want – want to – to touch – you.” His panting breath broke his words. “Want to feel you – make you – feel good. Want this to, to last.”

“I can’t last much longer, Wilson. I’m almost fifty, but I’m still a man.”

Wilson’s eyes widened as though this was the first he’d considered his partner’s gender.

“And you’re a man, too,” House continued. “And we’re having sex. And it’s good sex. It’s really good sex. If you freak out now and run away, you’ll be the most sexually frustrated man in the world. So let me do this.” He looked down the length of their bodies for a moment before making eye contact again. “You want to touch me and I want to touch you. Let’s make each other feel good. I want you to come for me. And I can’t wait much longer, Jimmy.” He ground his dick into Wilson’s hip to emphasize his urgency.

“Um…”

“What do you want, Jimmy. Tell me.”

“Please….please, uh,” he glanced at the ceiling and swallowed the rising lump in his throat before finishing in a rush, “Iwantyoutofingermyass!”

House was off him in a flash and Wilson had a moment of panic, thinking he’d finally ruined their friendship. Sure, it was screwed up, but it was what it was. And now he’d destroyed it and it wasn’t theirs, it was just a memory.

House pawed through the contents of his nightstand drawer, rummaging for a bottle of lube and upon finding it, he raised it with a triumphant flourish. He was only slightly caught off guard by the defeated look on Wilson’s face, but 15 years is a long time to know someone and it only took House a split second to know exactly what Wilson had been thinking.

“Astroglide work for you?” House asked mildly. His casual tone could have been inquiring about the weather forecast or the cost of produce at the local grocer’s.

Wilson knew how to read House just as well. He heard what House was really saying – _I’m still here, this is happening_ – and Wilson nodded with a slight smile – _thanks for reassuring me, I’m still here, too._

House resumed his earlier position between Wilson’s legs and clumsily tongued him while fumbling with the lube. He got the cap open without looking, but was pretty sure he felt some of it spill. Oh, well. He had to break contact finally to spread some on his fingers and wound up spilling more. Considering the puddle for a moment he thought “Convenient if I need more.”  
He spread Wilson with his left hand and brought the coated fingers of his right hand against Wilson’s entrance. He watched with rapt attention as his finger circled the entrance again and gently pushed. He was just breaking the barrier when Wilson bucked again and half of House’s finger sank inside.

They were both surprised and Wilson practically squealed, though House wasn’t sure if it was from pleasure or pain. Probably both, he decided. He kept still.

Wilson was gulping air like a drowning man and his legs were trembling. His cock was leaking and only when he felt a stream of precome run down his length did he realize they were both neglecting his dick. He slowed his breathing a bit, and then reached down to touch himself. He spread his legs a bit more and gave a tiny thrust to let House know he was ready. He compulsively squeezed himself when House’s finger began sliding in further. Just a little bit more and oh it felt so good and so strange and good and new and exciting and he wasn’t going to last if House slid his finger any farther.

House crooked the tip of his finger and watched in amazement as Wilson gasped. House could feel the muscles tightening around the base of his finger while Wilson’s prostate literally swelled under his touch and then Wilson was crying out, his come was landing in House’s hair.  
House was too shocked to move at first. He regained his senses as Wilson was coming down from his orgasm. He pulled his finger out and cast around for something to wipe it on, finally just bunching up the sheet and wiping his hand.

House was still aroused but so horrified that Wilson had come on him, he couldn’t think of anything but getting to the shower and washing his hair. He veritably bolted from the room and was under the spray before the water had even halfway warmed. He was shampooing his hair for the third time when the curtain pulled back and he felt the chill rush of air roll over his back as Wilson stuck his head in.

“House?” Tentative, apologetic, concerned.

“What?” he spat irritably, still not facing him.

“Um, can I…you know….” He gestured vaguely towards the shower even though House couldn’t see him.

“Go away.”

“Yeah. Ok. Sorry.” Wilson sounded defeated, but unsurprised.

A few minutes later, House heard Wilson walk by on his way to the living room. He didn’t wait to hear the door.

“Wait!” he called.

Silence.

“Wilson, get back here!” he told himself maybe his neighbors couldn’t hear him and tried not to imagine their reactions.

If he were an introspective man, he might admit that this was ridiculous. He was a middle-aged man with a penchant for drugs, alcohol, and hookers and now here he was trying to soothe his best friend’s ruffled feelings after having noisy sex with him. Or maybe it wasn’t noisy. He wasn’t really paying attention to their volume. Too focused on the sex. The good sex. The great sex that still left him unsatisfied but whose memory was making him hard again.

When Wilson stuck his head into the shower again, he was greeted by the sight of House’s hands lathering shampoo in his hair, soap bubbles cascading down his body, parting at his erection and flowing over his powerful legs.

“You gonna join me, or what?” House dropped a hand to his crotch and allowed himself a few short strokes, watching Wilson watch him.

“Uh, yeah. Just need to, you know.” Wilson was already removing his clothes and House smirked when he saw that the buttons on Wilson’s shirt didn’t line up. He turned his back on the endearingly clumsy yet highly erotic sight of Wilson stripping and rinsed his hair.

He kept his back turned as Wilson joined him, but he did take a step back to communicate he wanted Wilson to touch him. Wilson read him perfectly and pressed his chest against House’s back, wrapped his arms around his waist and rested his forehead against the taller man’s shoulder.

House moved his head slightly and water soaked Wilson’s mop, plastering it to his forehead, but he didn’t pull away. His left hand traced water tracks down House’s stomach to his cock and he circled his hand around it. He felt rather than heard House’s moan.

He stroked House slowly but steadily, pausing every now and then to fondle his foreskin. Wilson couldn’t hide his fascination with the unfamiliar skin and paused more frequently now to play with it. When he pulled it back all the way, he could feel Cowper’s fluid slick under his fingers, refusing to run from the water or mix with it.

He swirled his thumb over the head and then closed his fist, giving House a long slow stroke. He was rewarded with another moan, this one somehow needier. He tried to ignore that wondrous piece of skin that had taken his thoughts hostage since the first time he saw it and concentrated on setting a rhythm House liked.

The hand and arm motions were identical to stroking himself, but nothing felt the same. He couldn’t look down and see his hand, try as he might. He was getting aroused again and desperately wanted to see what he was doing. He rutted against House’s ass, but this only frustrated him more and that whiny moan wasn’t coming from him, was it?

The water suddenly stopped and Wilson lifted his head from House in surprise. House broke away and turned to him. Wilson melted under the predatory stare and there was no denying whom the whimper came from that time.

Wilson looked down and couldn’t mask his surprise at the sight of House’s purple dickhead swollen over the folds of his retracted foreskin. Wilson unconsciously licked his lips and took his own erection in hand.

House smiled.

“What are you gonna do for me, Jimmy?”

Wilson stroked himself a few more times and then reached between House’s legs. House threw his head back and gasped, tendons straining in his neck in taut cords that mesmerized Wilson. House was thrusting into his hand and grunting. His movements were becoming erratic and Wilson dropped to his knees, swallowing House’s length before he could think about what he was doing.  
House’s hands immediately grabbed the top of his head to steady his balance and guide Wilson’s mouth on him the way he wanted it. He tried to refrain from pumping into that sweet mouth but was losing the battle as his hips rocked into Wilson’s face of their own accord.

Wilson pulled back and stroked House’s foreskin over the crown and then pushed it back again. He stroked House frantically and watched a thousand expressions flit across House’s face. He knew House was on the edge but Wilson couldn’t sustain any action long enough to satisfy him. He switched to his right hand, dropping his exhausted left arm, grabbing his own crotch and stroking in time with the motion on House’s body.

Wilson was quickly approaching a second orgasm and was ashamed of his greed, ashamed at his failure to satisfy House and frantic for them both to come. He couldn’t think of anything else to help, didn’t think House would appreciate anal play the way he did.

Anal play. Just thinking about it had Wilson riding the knife edge of orgasm and without even realizing it he said “Next time I want you to really fuck me instead of just using your finger,” and House was coming and the resultant roar was echoing off the tiles and pounding against Wilson’s ear drums, fighting the blood rushing there for dominance as House’s semen arced over Wilson’s shoulder and then Wilson’s own orgasm wracked his body when he felt a thick stream of white hot heat splatter against his chest and run down his stomach, pooling in the curls nestled around his own spasming cock.

Wilson dropped both hands to his sides as he relaxed backwards. The sound of their breathing was still harsh against the tiles. He could sense House still above him, and he cracked his eyes against the bright light to see House straddling him, cock softening but still engorged, his chest rapidly rising and falling, arms thrust from his body at a 90 degree angle to clutch at the wall and the shower curtain on either side of him. House’s shoulders were rippling as the tension in his body continued to drain from him and he dropped his head down to his chest, swallowed a gulp of air, and finally opened his eyes, smiling down at Wilson. It was the most beautiful thing Wilson had ever seen.

House gave a breathy laugh.

“Guess there’s no way the neighbor’s didn’t hear that,” he explained when Wilson gave him a puzzled look.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sometimes, usually late at night, Wilson found himself looking back on their first encounters and was pleased they’d fallen back into their natural rapport. He couldn’t remember how things had ever gotten awkward in the first place. He had a few panicked moments of “What now?” but House refused to indulge him in any sort of conversation about it.

Wilson contented himself with the knowledge that they still had their friendship and reveled in the times it strayed beyond the conventional boundaries. Whatever they had wasn’t easily defined, but it was theirs.


End file.
